Statistical Analysis of Love
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock debates the statistics of a successful marriage. Do statistics lie? Sherlolly


Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was celebrating his divorce. His second divorce. From the same woman. The first one hadn't really taken because he had made the mistake of going on a solitary drinking spree the day it was finalized. When Lestrade got drunk, he got lonely. When he got lonely, he thought about women. Unfortunately, the first woman who can to mind was his freshly minted ex-wife, who, on her own little spree, was more than amenable to his overtures. Thus began round two of the marriage made in hell. Or at least purgatory.

So this time Greg was surrounding himself with friends, who had orders to confiscate his mobile phone if he so much as mentioned his ex-wife's name. John Watson was always up for an evening of drinking and camaraderie. His wife Mary, having been cooped up with a new child for the past ten months, was more than in the mood for an evening of adult beverages. Sherlock Holmes, not a big drinker, had been corralled into accompanying them by John and Mary, pointing out that he did, indeed, need to stay on Greg's good side in order to ensure a steady flow of cases from Scotland Yard. Sherlock knew that Scotland Yard needed him more than he needed them, but allowed himself be persuaded simply because he had learned to like the company of others. Molly Hooper agreed to go because Greg was a dear friend, and because Sherlock Holmes would be there.

The evening had started at a pub not far from St. Bart's. John and Molly had both been on duty that afternoon, and it seemed convenient for everyone to meet for dinner and drinking nearby. Sherlock and Greg had come straight from Scotland Yard, with Mary Watson arrived shortly thereafter, having deposited her daughter Claire at the babysitter's for an overnight visit. Mary was taking no chances on missing out on the fun in order to return home early.

Dinner had progressed in a convivial manner, nicely lubricated with everyone's beverage of choice, but John had caught Greg glancing at his mobile once or twice. He had not yet mentioned the ex's name, but all the signs were there. The evening needed more drink, more party. But this crowd's idea of a party was perhaps not to be found at this particular pub. The music was getting louder. It being Friday night, a steady influx of young singles had taken over the scene, some of whom were not shy about approaching the group around the table. Molly had been persuaded to dance a couple of times, as had Greg, but his heart wasn't into it. Sherlock merely glowered at perspective dance partners, cutting them down with an icy look.

John tried to console himself with the idea that it was his wife's threatening look which had discouraged his admirers, and not his multicolored jumper. He only partially succeeded.

They soon decided that the pub was not the proper venue in which to get seriously drunk and discuss the problems of the world in general, and themselves in particular. They were all buzzed enough to have become rather maudlin, and the group had become rather introspective, perhaps fueled by Greg's morose attitude. Sherlock, arguably the most sober of the five, then suggested that they adjourn to Baker Street, where he had a sufficient supply of good liquor, mostly stolen from Mycroft, cheap red wine, Molly's favorite, and his bed nearby, so he could slip away at the earliest convenience. He pictured himself sleeping peacefully while his companions drank themselves into oblivion and hangovers from hell.

The group of five friends made their way up the stairs at 221B Baker Street just before midnight, already well-lubricated, but not yet ready to call it a night. Mrs. Hudson had, of course, heard them arrive, and seeing their state, had invited herself to the party, bringing her own bottle of blackberry brandy.

"I hope you're not drinking that in addition your herbal soothers, Mrs. Hudson," Molly sounded concerned, and slightly giggly.

"Of course not, dear. This stuff is soothing enough on its own!" the landlady said as she poured herself a glass, having had the good sense to bring her own.

Sherlock was scrounging under the sink, bringing out various bottles, while John searched for glassware. Mission accomplished, they headed back to the sitting room to set everything on the coffee table, which now looked like an alcoholic's dream and a teetotaler's nightmare. Everybody was free to serve themselves, and serve themselves they did.

"You know, Graham, you shouldn't feel so bad. She was, after all, sleeping with half the inhabitants of your complex of flats!" Sherlock decided to take the bull by the horns.

"That makes me feel a lot better, you git!"

"Well, it was only the male population. It could have been far worse, numerically, if she had decided to experiment…"

"Once again, thanks, mate!"

John now tried to be slightly more supportive. "Look, mate, some things just don't work out. Everybody has problems…"

"What's the worst your Mary's done, John. Burnt the dinner?"

John almost choked on his drink when Sherlock smirked, "Yes, tell us, John, it's not as if she's killed anyone. Lately."

Molly spoke next, trying to comfort the DI, "It's not your fault, Greg. I'm sure you tried to make it work. Sometimes two people just are not meant to be together, no matter how much they want to be…"

"Statistically speaking, 42% of all marriages in the UK end in divorce. The average age for a man to divorce is forty-five…"

"Yeah, I was forty-five for the first one, mate. Good to know I'm average!"

"But it does bode well for the others in the room, Gareth," Sherlock continued. "You've had two marriages…"

"I like to think of it as one marriage, with a brief recess, Sherlock."

"But, technically, two, George. Mrs. Hudson has had one unsuccessful marriage…"

"I didn't divorce, Sherlock!" The landlady protested.

"But you surely would have had not the state of Florida decided to end your marriage with a lethal injection."

"There could have been other options. I knew quite a lot of unsavory characters…"

"Bearing in mind that our guest of honor is a member of the local constabulary, perhaps you should consider carefully any further comments, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, yes, definitely divorce, then!" The elderly woman then took a healthy swig of blackberry brandy.

"So, to continue," Sherlock did, indeed, continue, "out of our small group here, we already have three divorces. So, statistically speaking, the odds are in favor of any other marriages, current or future, entered into by members of this coterie, succeeding!"

Mary spoke, as she lifted a glass to toast. "Well, here's to looking on the bright side! Thanks to Greg's wife's infidelity John and I will remain together…"

"I was merely pointed out that, statistically…"

"Oh, shut up Sherlock, and drink up too. This is good news for John and I. And Molly!"

Molly sputtered a bit. "What makes you think I want to get married?"

"And why have you excluded me from the possibility?" added the detective.

John was the first to speak, with a tone of disbelief, "You want to get married, Sherlock?"

"I have not ruled out the possibility, John. Statistics show…"

"Statistics again!?" Greg tossed back another shot.

"...that married men live longer. I am not adverse to a long life…"

"Then maybe you should stop jumping off buildings, you prat!" John practically spat out the words.

"Perhaps I should give up being shot, too!" Sherlock laughed, as Mary took her turn gulping her drink.

All this conversation was indeed working. John had noticed that Greg hadn't glanced at his mobile in quite a while, evidently thoughts of his ex-wife being pushed to the back of his mind as the thought of Sherlock Holmes as a husband occupied the forefront.

"I thought you didn't do the sentiment thing, mate?" Greg voiced everyone's thought.

"Of course there would have to some sentiment involved, Gordon. One cannot achieve a successful marriage without caring for one's partner. But compatibility is the primary concern. Look at your own marriage. You obviously had a great deal of sentiment directed at your wife. And she cared for you, I am sure. But it is extremely obvious that you were not compatible. Compatibility is the key. How can one raise children in a home…"

"Children!?" John gasped. "Now you want children?"

"Of course. One of the primary benefits of marriage is the production of offspring…"

"You can 'produce offspring' without marrying, Sherlock!"

"If you are familiar with my disdain for the term 'boyfriend', how do you think I feel about the term 'baby daddy', John?"

Dr. Molly Hooper had sat quietly through this whole series of revelations. Sherlock a husband. Sherlock a father! Not that the thought had never occurred to her. She just never believed that it had occurred to him! She downed another glass of wine. And then another.

"So, Sherlock, to summarize." John continued, trying to sound sober, "You intend to marry at some point. To father children. I thought you weren't interested in sex. The body is merely transport, remember?"

"I have never said I was not interested in sex, John. It was the pursuit of it that I considered a waste of time. Too much time and energy wasted! But in a marriage, with a compatible person, of the opposite sex," here he paused slightly to fix Mrs. Hudson with an icy stare, "the pursuit is eliminated. Why would anyone deny themselves such an experience if were available on a regular basis?"

"You are the soul of romance, Mr. Holmes!" Mary snickered. "And now, you believe statistics are working in your favor!"

"Don't be stupid, Mary. Statistically speaking, any marriage I entered would be almost bound to succeed."

"Why is that?"

"Because I would choose a partner wisely. Someone I care about, someone who cares about me. We would, of course, have similar interests. Our personalities would have to be complementary. And out intellects. As my social skills need much to be desired, she would have to be more friendly, empathetic, kind. Healthy, sexually compatible. Our educational levels would have to be similar…"

"Almost sounds like you have someone in mind, mate," John interrupted.

"Of course I do. It would be foolish to wait until this late stage in my life, and not have weighed the available options…"

"And just how many options have you come up with?"

"Just one. I can't think of another soul who would have me, actually. Which doesn't speak well of Dr. Hooper's taste, but I am rather adorable.." Having said this, Sherlock Holmes turned to Molly Hooper and gave her the largest, brightest, and most patently uncomfortable smile anyone had ever witnessed. Molly promptly dropped her glass, spilling red wine all over her trousers and blouse.

"Her only other fault, besides her affection for me, he her inherent clumsiness. I hope you plan on being more careful with our infants, Molly. Mycroft was bounced on his head as a child, and look how that turned out!" Molly sat the with her mouth agape, but the detective continued. "I, however, managed to jump off a tall building with only a few scrapes and bruises to show for it, so, genetically speaking, it should all work out admirably!"

John, Mary, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson were now all speaking at the same time, Mary babbling as she wiped the stunned pathologist down with a towel she had brought from the kitchen. "Go for it, Molls. We all witnessed the proposal!"

"It was hardly a proposal, more like a statement of fact!" John was shaking his head, dumbfounded.

"Glad I could help with my statistically provident divorce, mate."

"Divorces, Gawain, two!" Sherlock pointed out, trying not to sound unkind, a definite effort for him.

"I'm not sure you can count them as two when they were from the same woman, Sherlock!"

"Can we compromise on one and a halt?" John put in, trying to settle the debate.

"I'd get it in writing, dear. Sherlock isn't much of a drinker. Who knows what he'll remember in the morning?" Mrs. Hudson tried to be helpful, offering Molly a pen and a small notepad which she had taken from the desk.

It was about this time that Sherlock noticed that the prospective bride had said nothing at all. He knew that he was inebriated, or we would not have made such a precipitous declaration. For the first time, real worry was beginning to develop in his foggy mind. He rose, somewhat shakily, from his chair and sat himself down on the couch next to his pathologist. "Breathe, Molly."

So Molly breathed. And continued to breathe, perhaps a bit too quickly, threatening to hyperventilate. "Alright, Molly, stop breathing!"

"For god's sake, Sherlock, make up your damned mind!" she finally shouted.

"I have, Dr. Hooper. I'm waiting for you to make up yours."

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. If I remember this in the morning, and you remember, I'll marry you."

"Good."

"Good? That's it?' Mary Watson was shaking her head in disbelief. "As I mentioned before, you really are the soul of romance!"

After another round of congratulatory drinks the party started to slow down. The bride to be looked a little the worse for wear as Mrs. Hudson led her downstairs to her spare bed, still dabbing at the wine stains on her clothing and muttering, "You should have gotten him to sign something, luv." John Watson had removed his colorful jumper and attempted to burn it in a unlit fireplace. Mary was wondering where she had misplaced her infant daughter, until John led her gently upstairs to his old room. Greg Lestrade was snoring on the couch. Sherlock Holmes stood by himself in his sitting room, surveying the damage and, more than a little incapacitated, contemplated his next move. That's when he called Mycroft.

"Sherlock, this had better be important. It's after two in the morning!"

"Mycroft, I have just proposed to Dr. Hooper."

"Are you drunk, brother?"

"Of course I am! It may have taken me another five years had I not been so! My social inhibitions, and everything, being what they are. I need your assistance, brother…"

"I will not be a party to your disappointing Dr. Hooper, Sherlock. You will have to wriggle out of this on your own…"

"I do not wish to, as you put it, 'wriggle out' of this, Mycroft. I wish to guarantee that Molly does not. She is, possibly, even more inebriated than I. I need you to show up at my flat at the perfectly opportune moment between drunkenness and hangover, armed with a wedding dress and a special license…"

"A wedding dress, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly had an unfortunate accident with her wine glass. She can be a bit on the clumsy side. I must make her promise to be more careful with the children…"

"Yes. We all know how damaging head injuries can be," Mycroft sighed, rubbing the back of his head.

"I'll be there in the morning, little brother. And may I say you seem to make your very best decisions while under the influence. Well worth the depletion of my liquor cabinet!"

Mary Watson, having become accustomed to rising early, was the only one awake at 221B Baker Street, when the heavy knock downstairs rattled both the door and her nerves. She looked down the stairway to see Mrs. Hudson open the door to Mycroft Holmes and his personal assistant, the remarkable Anthea. Mycroft continued up the stairs, while the two women scuttled back into Mrs. Hudson's flat, Anthea carrying a garment bag over one arm.

"Good morning, Mary. Perhaps you could assist Anthea with the bridal preparations. I assume the groom is still sleeping it off?"

"Oh, my god! That wasn't a dream? I need more coffee. A lot more coffee!" She looked down only to notice that she was barely dressed in one of Sherlock's shirts. "And a lot more clothes!"

Mary then run upstairs to inform her husband what was going on.

Mycroft strode across the sitting room and down the hall, barely glancing at the sleeping Lestrade, still on the couch. "Wake up, Sherlock. Your fate is at hand!"

Sherlock moaned and pulled the pillow tightly over his head. "I don't suppose that secret government research at Baskerville has come up with any miraculous cure for the common hangover?"

"As a matter of fact, they have. But I'd rather see you suffer, after calling me at two o'clock in the morning!"

"You'd make poor Molly suffer, too?"

"She's better get used to suffering. She is, after all, marrying you!"

The younger Holmes suddenly became serious. "But is she, really? Has she backed out?"

"I have heard no protestations as yet from downstairs, Sherlock. And Anthea has not used her talented thumbs to text me any information on the subject, so I must assume all is in order!"

Mycroft pulled the covers from his brother's bed, and hurried him into the shower. "You may not look your best, but you don't have to smell like a distillery!" He then recounted the arrangements while Sherlock shaved.

"I have the special license. All it requires is the signatures of the bride and groom. I will officiate. I assume John will act as best man, and Mary as matron of honor, yes? Mrs. Hudson can give the bride away. I'm not sure DI Lestrade will awaken in time. Perhaps we can have him snore the wedding march?"

The groom to be rolled his eyes.

Interested parties were soon gathered in the sitting room, awaiting impatiently the arrival of Mrs. Hudson and the bride. They soon heard unsteady footsteps on the stairs outside the door, followed by the sound of someone stumbling, a muttered "Bloody hell!", and the landlady's concerned clucking.

"She does seem to be a bit clumsy, Sherlock. Perhaps a nanny is in order?" The officiant leaned in to whisper in his brother's ear.

Sherlock's wince turned to a gentle smile as his bride entered the room. She looked as pale as he did, and almost as nervous. Mrs. Hudson led her slowly over to her groom, and placed her hand in his. Sherlock's eyes travelled from his bride to his brother as he said, "Make this quick, Mycroft. I'm not sure how long either can stand upright!"

Mary Watson rolled her eyes and whispered to her husband, "Ever the romantic!"

The brief ceremony was conducted to the accompaniment of DI Greg Lestrade's melodious snoring and Mrs. Hudson unmelodious weeping. Anthea, ever efficient, had found some appropriate music on her mobile, and was recording the ceremony for any future disbelievers. By the time the vows, and rings, were exchanged, everyone was smiling, either in disbelief, relief, or pure happiness.

And if Molly Hooper, now Holmes, had been the least bit apprehensive about the first kiss her new husband would bestow on her, she needn't have been. It was no brush on the cheek, or peck on the forehead. Sherlock wrapped her in his arms, lowered his lips to hers, and kissed her with all the passion he had been hiding for years. And years. He only broke for air when his brother coughed rather loudly, and his best friend clapped him on the shoulder.

A snorting sound came from the couch as Greg finally rose to a sitting position and said, "Did I miss anything?"

The reception lasted all of five minutes, and that was too long for the newlywed couple. John and Mary hurried off home to their baby. Mrs. Hudson toddled downstairs to her comfy bed and her herbal soothers. Greg offered his congratulations trotted off with a spring in his step, hopefully not back to his ex-wife's flat.

Anthea was already waiting in the car, when Mycroft handed his brother an enormous bottle of paracetamol, encircled by a huge white bow. "I thought you might need this, brother dear. And as an added gift, I'm giving you forty-eight hours to enjoy a honeymoon before I inform Mummy and Papa. I suggest you make the most of them."

Mycroft turned to leave, but was stopped in his tracks as his new sister-in-law threw her arms around him, kissed him on the cheek, and called him her 'second favorite Holmes brother'. He smiled down at the petite woman and said, "Perhaps I can keep them at bay for an additional twenty-four hours. Just for you!"

He then clapped his younger brother on the back, and made him promise to give their children "normal" names. " 'Mycroft' and 'Sherlock', indeed. What were they thinking? It's amazing we didn't turn out rather peculiar, isn't it?"

"Yes, isn't it?" Sherlock responded as both of the brothers laughed at themselves, and Mycroft finally left the new couple to their own devices.


End file.
